| Back
to
Card
Catalog Back to Literature Back to Stories |
|
Rose of the Sun by
Mercurien
Bladebrother The
people
made
way,
and
shouted
their
cheers
for
their
King.
Aemon,
son
of
Caar,
son
of
Thorin
had
the
people’s
love,
their
respect.
He
was
a
young
man,
and
his
Kingship
showed
the
bursting
enthusiasm
of
his
age,
bringing
his
city
and
his
people
great
happiness.
All
of
the
women
wanted
to
mother
him,
all
of
the
girls
wanted
to
kiss
him.
Every
man,
from
Master
At
Arms
to
innkeeper,
wanted
to
offer
the
advice
of
experience,
and
every
boy
was
wracked
with
envy
for
the
King
they
struggled
to
emulate.
He
was
a
young
King,
but
a
good
King.
There
was
but
one
complaint,
yet
it
was
uttered
by
everyone
in
Manetheren.
It
was
uttered
by
the
women
in
a
voice
of
matronly
concern,
by
the
girls
with
a
deep
longing
sigh,
by
the
men
in
a
voice
of
jovial
earnestness,
by
the
boys
as
to
a
friend.
Aemon,
their
King,
needed
a
Queen.
But
such
thoughts
were
far
from
his
mind
as
Aemon
rode
through
the
streets
towards
his
palace,
returning
from
an
inspection
tour
of
the
city’s
defences.
In
fact,
his
eyes
keenly
roved
over
the
streets,
taking
in
information.
Were
the
businesses
struggling
or
flourishing?
Were
beggars
scurrying
from
street
corners?
Were
the
children
plump
and
healthy
or
over-thin?
Were
the
roads
clean,
and
the
houses
well-built?
For
such
details
make
a
good
King
a
great
King.
And
Aemon
was
destined
to
be
a
great
King.
Of
a
sudden,
though,
his
roving
eyes
paused,
moved
on,
then
sprang
back
again.
He
pulled
on
the
reins
and
sat
back
in
his
saddle,
halting
his
horse.
His
heartbeat
raced
as
in
battle,
and
his
mouth
went
dry.
“Surely,”
he
thought,
“Surely
the
light
never
created
a
woman
so
beautiful
as
she.
Surely
she
is
a
mirage,
an
illusion,
surely
this
is
a
dream
from
which
I
am
about
to
wake.”
She
was
the
most
perfect
woman
he
had
ever
seen,
as
though
the
master
craftsmen
of
all
ages
has
labored
over
every
fine
detail
of
her,
honing
her
sweetness
until
it
almost
hurt
to
look
upon
her.
Her
fair
hair
framed
a
perfect,
beautiful
face,
and
she
stepped,
walked,
moved
with
abundant
grace.
She
was
perfect.
The
young
woman
at
whom
he
stared
pretended
not
to
notice,
and
went
about
her
shopping,
purchasing
fruits
and
meat
and
ribbon
and
thread
while
her
King
watched,
staring
at
her
as
though
he
could
not
turn
his
eyes
away.
He
spoke
quietly
to
an
attendant,
without
moving
his
eyes
from
her.
“Go
to
that
woman.
Find
out
who
she
is.
Ask
her
if
she
will
sup
with
her
King.”
The
man
dismounted
and
walked
to
the
woman.
“My
Lady,
may
I
ask
your
name?”
She
blushed.
“I
am
Eldrene
ay
Ellan
ay
Carlan,
My
Lord.”
He
smiled.
“My
King,
Aemon
of
Manetheren,
invites
you
to
sup
with
him.”
She
continued
to
blush
but
her
voice
carried
an
edge
of
steel.
“His
eyes
look
upon
me
hungrily,
not
as
a
King
but
as
a
man.
What
manner
of
man
is
he?”
The
attendant
was
shocked.
“What
manner
of
man?
He
is
King
of
Manetheren.
All
people
know
of
his
courage,
his
wisdom.
All
of
Manetheren
loves
him.”
She
shook
her
head.
“I
love
my
King
as
much
as
anyone
else.
But
what
sort
of
man
is
he?
What
manner
of
man
approaches
a
Lady
by
sending
his
servant?
Does
the
King
of
Manetheren
wish
to
dine
with
a
subject,
or
does
Aemon,
a
man,
wish
to
dine
with
me?
“Go
to
your
King,
My
Lord.
Tell
him
that
if
he
wishes
to
dine
with
me,
he
will
approach
me
as
any
other
man
would
approach
a
woman.
Let
him
stand
outside
my
house
and
convince
me
to
accompany
him.”
The
attendant
was
shocked
but
Eldrene
would
not
reconsider,
and
he
walked
back
to
his
King
and
remounted.
“My
King,
her
name
is
Eldrene.
She
is
daughter
of
Ellan,
daughter
of
Carlan.
And
she
will
not
sup
with
you
unless
you
stand
outside
her
house
in
the
manner
of
all
men
of
Manetheren,
and
call
her
to
come
with
you.
For
such,
as
she
says,
is
the
way
of
our
people.”
The
attendant
was
wary,
waiting
for
the
King’s
anger.
But
Aemon
threw
back
his
head
and
laughed
with
glee.
“She
will
have
me
stand
and
convince
her
to
come
with
me?”
The
attendant
nodded.
Aemon
laughed
again.
“The
rose
has
a
stem
of
steel,
it
seems!
So
be
it!”
And
so
it
was
that
the
following
morning,
just
after
dawn,
the
King
emerged
from
his
palace
upon
his
stallion,
both
of
them
groomed
for
high
ceremony.
For
centuries,
men
of
Manetheren
had
declared
their
love
from
before
their
beloved’s
house,
risking
rejection
in
public,
risking
mockery
and
humility
as
the
price
they
must
pay
for
a
woman’s
love.
The
King
wore
the
dress
uniform
of
the
Lord
of
Guards,
and
carried
a
power-wrought
heron-marked
blade.
His
stallion’s
tack
and
saddle
were
of
fine
leather,
inlaid
with
gold
and
blood-red
silk.
He
carried
the
shield
of
his
fathers,
the
Red
Eagle
of
Manetheren
embossed
on
its
front.
And
he
came
alone.
And
alone
he
approached
the
still-sleeping
house
where
Eldrene
resided.
And
as
he
stood
before
it
he
thought
he
detected
movement
within.
Well,
he
would
wake
them
soon
enough.
He
called
out,
as
loud
as
he
could,
for
all
the
street
to
hear,
calling
Eldrene
by
the
name
which
would
be
hers
evermore:
“Rose
of
the
sun,
rise
and
bloom!
For
the
world
is
marred
from
perfection
until
you
grace
it!”
>From
the
window
above
there
was
nothing.
No
sound,
no
movement.
Yet
Eldrene
was
there,
and
though
Aemon
could
not
see
the
flows,
she
had
reached
for
the
Source,
and
wound
air
about
him,
so
that
his
next
words,
and
all
that
followed,
flowed
throughout
the
mountain
city,
echoing
off
the
Mountains
of
Mist,
and
were
heard
by
all
in
Manetheren,
in
the
mountains
and
on
the
plains.
And
everywhere,
people
woke,
or
stopped
their
morning’s
work,
and
heard
the
voice
of
their
King.
“Rose
of
the
sun,
rise
and
bloom!
For
beside
you
all
beauty
pales!”
This
time
there
was
a
stir
at
the
window
and
Aemon
could
see
a
shadow
within.
An
older
woman,
handsome
in
her
maturity,
carrying
the
memory
of
great
beauty,
opened
the
window
and
swallowed
her
nerves,
as
her
daughter’s
flows
carried
her
words
too.
“Who
disturbs
my
daughter’s
sleep?”
“I
am
Aemon,
son
of
Caar,
son
of
Thorin,
and
I
declare
before
all
who
hear
me
that
your
daughter
is
the
most
beautiful
woman
in
the
light.
So
do
I
declare,
standing
in
morning’s
first
light.
I
beg
you,
permit
her
to
address
me,
if
only
to
revile
me
and
send
me
away.”
Ellan
swallowed,
still
not
believing
these
words
were
coming
from
her
King.
“So
shall
it
be,
Aemon
al
Caar
al
Thorin.
If
she
wishes,
she
may
come.”
Aemon
shouted
louder,
though
the
flows
made
this
un-necessary,
and
all
of
Manetheren
listened.
“Eldrene,
Rose
of
the
Sun,
I
am
Aemon.
And
I
beg
you
to
address
me,
for
my
heart
is
empty
with
longing,
and
all
the
world’s
treasures
are
as
dust
while
you
are
hidden.
“Eldrene,
Rose
of
the
Sun,
let
your
beauty
shine
over
all
Manetheren
from
your
window
this
morn!”
And
then
she
was
there.
Dressed
in
silks
of
Maroon
and
deep
blue,
Eldrene
stood
by
the
window.
She
had
been
preparing
for
hours,
and
she
truly
did
look
like
the
Rose
of
the
Sun.
“Aemon,
Red
Eagle
and
King,
why
do
you
come?”
He
replied.
“I
come
to
tell
all
of
Manetheren
that
you
are
the
greatest
beauty
within
it.”
“You
have
done
so,
Red
Eagle.
Need
you
tarry
further?”
“I
must,
my
lady.”
“Why,
Red
Eagle?
You
have
done
as
you
wished.
Why
not
go?”
A
sudden
boldness
seized
Aemon
and
he
spoke
as
from
the
heart.
“For
my
lady,
I
am
King
of
Manetheren,
and
I
would
wish
that
the
Mountain’s
greatest
beauty
be
my
Queen!”
Her
flows
faltered
as
she
stumbled,
taken
aback,
but
there
was
no
doubt
as
to
her
response,
and
the
flows
were
strong
again
as
she
answered.
“Enter
my
House,
Aemon,
King
of
Manetheren.
I
will
be
your
Queen.”
At
her
words,
the
silence
of
the
streets
was
no
more,
as
a
thousand
thousand
voices
were
raised
in
cheer,
a
cheer
which
rolled
from
hilltop
to
hilltop,
right
across
the
land,
unassisted
by
the
power,
from
man
to
man,
woman
to
woman,
child
to
child,
all
joined
in
a
chorus
of
exultation
and
glee
at
the
words
which
had
held
them
in
rapt
attention.
For Manetheren had found its Queen. |